Short short story: Medicine Specialist

 (I am republishing this story in the light of the experience I had recently.)

“Pretty nasty fall,” the elderly doctor said after studying the X-rays. “On your right side, one lower rib and the little finger of the hand are broken. Some minor lacerations. But not to worry.”

Lying on his examination table a bit dazed, I tried to recollect what had happened. After breakfast I had left home to buy a newspaper. I had just been transferred to Mallai and was still in the process of getting things organized. The place was strange to me except that I had transited through the airport a couple of times.

I was walking briskly along the tree-lined avenue. The broad and even footpath was about one foot higher than the road. The locality was surprisingly clean and neat. A refreshing breeze blew in from the sea. The disciplined traffic moved smoothly. Nice place, I thought and carried on, reading the shop signs on both sides of the street.

Then it happened, all of a sudden. I tripped and fell forward. In a fraction of a second before hitting the pavement I realized that my hands would not be able to break the fall. I spun in the air the moment my palms touched the ground, like a slip fielder taking a diving catch. My right side banged against the edge of the walkway as I rolled on to the road.

In no time a crowd gathered around me talking excitedly in the local language, which I did not understand. Telling them that I was okay didn’t have any effect. I was carried to a doctor who was almost directly across the road.

While examining, the doctor had asked whether my head had hit the surface. It hadn’t. He wanted me to point out the places where it pained. After that the X-rays had been taken.

“The fractures,” the doctor said, helping me to a chair opposite his, “will take six weeks to heal."

“Six weeks!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t be alarmed. That’s normal. And you won’t be incapacitated."

He explained the line of treatment. No medicines except painkillers if absolutely necessary. The rib was to be left to heal on its own. I was to avoid sleeping on that side and lifting weights. The doctor placed a piece of dressing between the broken finger and the next one and bound them together with microporous tape. 

The hand was to be kept in sling whenever possible.

“If you like,” the doctor said, “I can refer you to an orthopedist. But really, there is no need.”

“Fine,” I agreed.

“Do you drink?”

I was taken aback by the sudden question. “Not for breakfast,” I replied.

The doctor laughed. “When you get home,” he said, take a bucket bath with some antiseptic in the water. After that have couple of stiff drinks with lunch and go to sleep.”

“Thanks for the prescription. I like it.”

“That’s for the trauma,” the doctor went on seriously. “Now, there are some symptoms you must watch out for. In case of any vomiting, nausea, or dizzy spells, contact me by phone immediately. Here’s my card.”

I had finished reading ‘Dr. Scaria Zachariah, Medicine Specialist’ when the doctor asked, “What caused the fall?”

I looked up and replied, “You did.”

“Me? How’s that?”

“While walking, I saw your signboard. It was the first time I came across the usage ‘Medicine Specialist’ and thought it rather amusing. Actually I was laughing inside me when my foot caught the manhole cover.”

Dr. Zachariah nodded. “The moral of the story is,” he said smiling, “don’t laugh at medicine men.”

I smiled back.

“Actually,” the doctor went on, “I’m a GP. In this area, the term ‘Medicine Specialist’ is used to identify physicians.” After a pause he continued, “Eye specialist, bone specialist, skin specialist and so on. Why not medicine specialist?”

“Yes, why not?” I agreed, wondering what they called the general surgeon.

Ends.

A Short Story for Independence Day

As we celebrate the Independence Day let us also spare a thought for the men of our Defence Forces who guard our country. 

Here is a sensitive and touching story about them:

 

A GENERAL AND HIS DAUGHTER

 

I’m on my way to see Kiran again. We have met only once, at her father’s house, but no other woman has left such an indelible mark in my mind as she did. In spite of the time that has elapsed, every little detail of that meeting is still fresh in my mind.

Maj. Gen. Krishna Marar, a retired Indian Army officer, and I were on his lawn in Munnar, a small hill station in Kerala’s tea country, sipping whiskey and soda and watching a full moon rise over the mountains. After a while I followed the general’s sidewise glance and saw a tall young lady standing a few paces away. She was in a dark-blue silk sari.

“Kiran, my only child,” the general removed the pipe he was smoking from his mouth and introduced us. “Mr. Samuel Mathai is a writer.”

I stood up chivalrously and said, “Hello, Kiran.”

She came forward with great poise, giving me a charming smile. After making her cosy on a cane chair she addressed me, “I’ve never met an author before. What do you write?”

“Well,” I replied, “articles mostly. A few short stories. This time it’s a novel.”

“That’s great,” Kiran responded enthusiastically. “Of late Indian authors have been doing very well.”

“Do you like novels?”

“Yes. The better ones.”

“She reads a great deal,” the general pitched in.

“What’s your novel about?” Kiran asked. And, looking at the moon, added, “Not one of those moonlight and roses stuff, I hope.”

I laughed and answered, “Oh, no. Romance isn’t my genre. It’s about a young army officer.”

“That’s interesting. A war story?”

“Not really. There’s some action of course. But it’s mostly about the young man’s life. His loves and his hopes. The sacrifices. The pitfalls.”

Kiran nodded. “War,” she said, “is a terrible business. Think of people dying, getting maimed. The misery endured by their families.”

“But it’s a fact of life.”

“True.”

“You don’t seem to like war novels.”

“Some are great. All Quiet on the Western Front, Across the Black Waters. Naked and the Dead was good too, but rather raw for me.”

“You’re nursing your drink” My host’s statement was almost a command. I smiled and took a sip.

Kiran was staring at the horizon, lost in thought. Her shoulder length hair that was parted on the side shimmered in the moonlight.

“Actually,” I said, “I came to consult your father on certain aspects of the book. I’d sent him a copy of the manuscript in advance.”

Kiran nodded and turning to her father asked, “How’s it, daddy?”

Gen. Marar took a quick puff on the pipe. “Good,” he answered. “In fact, very good, I would say. But some corrections and polishing are required. After all, it’s only an initial draft.”

Kiran had a serious expression now. “But a general’s view alone,” she said to me, “wouldn’t give sufficient dimension to a story about soldiers. You should know about the junior officers and the jawans. They are the army, really.”

“All generals were junior officers once,” my host said.

“Okay, daddy,” Kiran responded, laughing.

“You’re right,” I concurred with her. “I’ve covered that as well. In fact, a great deal of research has been done.”

“Good,” Kiran approved. “That’s essential. But what about soldiers’ wives, like me? They form a silent force behind every army.”

Did I feel a tinge of disappointment that she was married? I wasn’t sure. “That’s an area,” I admitted, “I haven’t really looked into. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“My husband, Maj. Mohan Nair….”She stopped abruptly and looked with concern at her father who had choked on his pipe and gone into a fit of coughing. “Daddy, you’re smoking too much these days. Are you alright?”

The general took out a handkerchief, removed his spectacles and wiped his brows. His face was flushed and his eyes blinked. He smiled with some effort and nodded.

After a few seconds Kiran asked me, “Where was I?”

“Your husband,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a smile, “Before retiring, daddy was his Div. Commander. That’s how we met, at a garden party on a moonlit night like this.” She paused and a faraway look came into her eyes. "He’s coming on leave next month," she added.

Mist was beginning to rise from the valley in soft, woolly streamers. It floated past us in the gentle breeze.

“We should go in now,” the general said. “It’s getting chilly.”

Kiran suddenly woke up from her reverie. “No, daddy, please,” she pleaded. “It’s quite pleasant, really. Let’s sit here a little while longer.”

After a thoughtful moment Gen. Marar said, “Okay,” and poured fresh drinks.

“I could,” Kiran addressed me, “provide you some material from the wives’ angle.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I responded. “Can you go through the manuscript and send me notes? I can come back for a discussion if necessary.”

“Fine.”

The suggestions and anecdotes she sent are still with me. I’ve acknowledged her contribution in my book.

“Oh, my!” Kiran exclaimed with a start and got up. “The baby’s crying. I have to go.”

I couldn’t hear any child cry and wondered about the invisible mechanism by which a mother could monitor her little one. I stood up to bid goodbye.

“I hope,” Kran said with a smile, “that your book turns out to be a bestseller.”

“Thank you.”

“You must send me an autographed copy.”

“I certainly will.” I did, and her well-composed letter of congratulation is carefully preserved.

“Please excuse me,” Kiran continued. “Mine’s a spoilt child. Daddy pets her too much. I suppose all grandfathers are like that. Now I have to play the piano to put her to sleep. Good night, Mr. Mathai, and good luck. See you daddy.”

I said good night and the general waved to her affectionately.

Kiran moved away quickly but gracefully. I watched till she disappeared inside the bungalow.

There was emptiness about the scene now. My host began the procedure of refilling his pipe. I sat looking at the moon, which was now clear above the Western Ghats.

A few minutes later, strains of piano drifted over to us through the open windows of the bungalow. Soft, captivating. Trained fingers caressing the keys. The notes lingered in the air.

“That’s beautiful,” I said spontaneously. “Kiran?”

Gen. Marar looked up and nodded. “She’s very good. Her music teacher used to say that she hadn’t come across any one better talented.”

“Not surprising,” I said. “The way Kiran plays is fascinating. It’s a pity - ”

“That such a gift is being wasted,” the general completed the sentence for me. “Yes, it’s sad. She even composes. But army life isn’t the best platform for a musical career.” He put the pipe to his mouth to light.

What Kiran had said about the army wives made more sense now. “Yes, I understand,” I commented.

“She practices every morning. My wife – she died two years back – and I used to look forward to those sessions. I still do. They are so soothing.”

“Where’s Kiran’s husband posted?” I asked.

“He’s been dead five years.” My host stated bluntly.

"Oh," I exclaimed, rather confused.

The general recharged his glass, pushed the bottle towards me, and continued, “Got it on an unnamed hill at the border. Officially, a peacetime casualty. It was one of those days of sporadic firing across the LoC. Half his face was blown off.”  

A strange kind of heaviness permeated the atmosphere and the mood changed tangibly. The music sounded distant, hardly audible. But I could visualise Kiran at the piano – young, beautiful, talented.

I helped myself to a stiff peg.

“He was,” the general went on, “the son I didn’t have. Handsome. So full of life. And a good soldier as well. They had made an ideal couple.” He began lighting his pipe.

Mist was getting thicker and made an eerie haze in the moonlight. The mountain range could be hardly seen. The temperature had dropped and I shivered slightly.

The pipe-lighting ritual took time. Finally that was done. The old soldier let out the smoke and stared at the horizon.

The music was back. A different tune. We were quiet for a while, listening. Then the general drank more whiskey and said, almost in a whisper, “Cradle Song by Johansson Brahms. The lullaby is meant for my granddaughter. Well, a rag doll, really. The one that was Kiran’s favourite as a child. When the news about Mohan came, she lost the baby she was carrying. But her mind hasn’t accepted that.”

There was heavy silence for a few moments. Then Gen. Marar said, “She’s almost normal in everything else.”

I looked away from him towards the house. Diffused light could be seen through the glass of the front door, like a lantern marking some distant grave.

That was four years earlier. This morning’s newspaper carried Gen. Marar’s obituary, which concluded with the sentence, ‘Survived by daughter, Mrs. Kiran Nair.’

Ends.

Also see:

Great soldiers never die…

France: The sound of Indian military boots again

Sapper caste, ‘doopta’, Cotton Maha Prabhu

The soldier farm

Short Story: A Bend in the Lake

(If you like to go back half a century to a touching lakeside story, please read on.)

The first morning back at our lakeside ancestral home in Kerala after sixteen years in the US, I woke up with a premonition that something unusual was about to happen. I looked around for my wife and six-year-old son. They were not in the room.

I lay back quietly, fully awake and alert, listening to the once familiar morning sounds. What caught my attention immediately was the chugging of a motorboat at a distance. It was getting closer. Veronica, I thought. Or perhaps it was a new vessel, which had replaced the old lady. I decided to get up and see before she passed the house.

The boat was part of the scene. As a child, every morning I used to rush out to the jetty in front of the house to watch her pass by and wave to the ‘Captain’ who sat in the small, pentagonal wheelhouse on the roof. He invariably wore a navy-blue shirt. His hair was trimmed short and parted on the side. He had thick moustache. He would smile and wave back. I would stand there feeling very happy, and watch the boat move down the lake, hoping that some day the Captain would stop at our place. He was my childhood hero.

One aspect that used to puzzle me those days was that Veronica always went southwards only. I had never seen her return even though some times I had kept awake late to check whether she passed by in the night. My conclusion was that every morning they were sending out a different boat with the same name. But when I was a little older, the defects in this line of reasoning became apparent. The boat was not new and looked the same every day. What happened to all those vessels that went south? Even if they were sending different boats, how could all of them have the same Captain?

One day I asked my father. He was leaning back on his favourite easy chair after lunch. A servant was standing at a respectful distance rolling out a betel leaf with lime and grated areca nut and tobacco for father to chew before the afternoon siesta. He did not laugh or ridicule me. He explained that Veronica plied a circular route. She started from Cochin, a port town to the north, went down the lake to a place called Shertally and returned along the eastern coast of our island. Then I began wondering whether the Captain had friends like me on the other side of the island. My great wish those days was to travel with the Captain all along his route.

That was all long ago. Then I was away in boarding school and college and came home only during the holidays. Those were lazy times of sleeping late but occasionally I used to see the boat and wave to the Captain. We remained friends. Then I went off to the United States and Veronica became part of another world.

I was glad to be awake in time to see her on my first morning back home after the long sojourn in America. A number of questions passed through my mind. Was it the same boat? And the same Captain? Surely, he would be very old now. If he were not there handling the wheel, would Veronica be the same?

Then I heard the bell from the boat.

I knew that it was a signal from the Captain to the engine room. For what – to change speed or to stop? Never before had I heard my friend give that signal.

As I was scrambling out of bed my wife came into the room. “The boat’s coming in,” she said excitedly. She knew all about my infatuation with Veronica.

I stared at her in disbelief. In my memory Veronica had never berthed at our place. She and her Captain were things mystique, entities that one were aware of, but did not directly come into contact with.

I rushed to the window and looked towards the lake. It was true. The boat had reduced speed and was heading for our pier. I could not see the Captain’s abode because a slanting coconut palm partially blocked the view. Tension started mounting inside me. I was virtually like a child at that moment. Was it the same Captain, my friend?

I almost ran to the landing followed by my wife and son. My excitement had spread to them. We watched in awe as the boat was brought alongside with expert seamanship. Veronica looked battered and ancient, something that belonged to another era. I was a little disturbed to notice that she hardly carried any passengers. There were all sorts of cargo - boxes, sacks, and bundles – merchandise from the port to remote destinations along the lake. It was sad to realize that the old lady was no longer a proud passenger boat.

The door of the wheelhouse opened and the man inside emerged into the morning sunlight. He stood on the roof of the boat, weather beaten and shrivelled but somehow larger than life. His hair and moustache were all grey. He still wore a navy-blue shirt.

He stayed there watching us and smiling, for what appeared to be an interminable span of time till I started worrying that he might not come down at all. But he lowered himself gently on to the wharf. The Captain, the friend from my childhood, was standing right before me, now an old man, but still with lively eyes. He smiled and nodded to my wife and looked at my son with great interest. Turning to me he said, “He’s the image of you when you were that age.”

I smiled in agreement.

“When did you arrive?” the Captain asked. “Last morning the house was locked up.”

“We reached in the evening.”

“Thought so,” the Captain went on. “Saw the front door open. When we came in closer, the boy was standing there. Like you used to.”

“You know,” he added after a pause, “it could have been thirty five years ago.”

I nodded, wondering how old the Captain would have been three and a half decades back. To a child he was an old man even then.

“I’m glad,” I said, “that you stopped here at last. I used to wish that some day you would.”

The Captain smiled. “I came here once before,” he stated. “When your father died.”

I was nine years old then. Some of the details were clear in my mind. Mother lying on a cot and crying silently. The crowd. Priests chanting prayers. The muted band playing as the raft carrying my father’s coffin moved away into the sunset for the cemetery across the lake.

“That morning,” the Captain was saying, “I saw the crowd. The servants and the tenants were beating their chests and weeping. Your father was a much respected man.”

“Mother died too,” I said.

“Yes. I heard.”

After a few moments of silence the Captain said, “I’m glad that I could meet you today. Also your wife and son.”

My wife thanked him. But, really, she could not be part of what was happening – the first meeting of two old friends.

“Well, aren’t you inviting me in?” the captain asked with an impish grin.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I’m so overwhelmed by your visit. Please do come in.”

The man took my son’s hand and we walked towards the house.

Grass grew in patches over the white sand of the pathway. The flowerpots, which were arranged on either side, were empty. The beautiful roses that once adorned them had withered away. What had been a well-maintained lawn years ago now looked wild with weeds.

The Captain was carefully observing the details. “The dovecote is deserted,” he said.

I looked towards the southern side of the house where the small tile roofed structure was. “Yes,” I agreed.

“Isn’t it strange?” the Captain asked. “Birds fly away. People drift off. After decades of habitation a house lies vacant.”

“We cannot always stick to one place,” I said rather defensively. Suddenly realizing that I had made that statement to a person who had done the same beat all his life I quickly added, “As times change, people have to look for new opportunities.”

“You’re right,” my guest agreed. “I’ve two sons. One is an engineer at Bhilai Steel Plant. The other is in the navy. I can’t expect them to take over my job. There is a saying – as a tree grows old, the seeds scatter.”

“No daughters?”

“That’s one gift God didn’t bestow on me.”

“Your wife?”

“Alive and well,” the Captain answered with a smile. “A good woman. The only thing she hasn’t reconciled to all these years is my daily quota of coconut toddy. Claims she can’t stand the smell!”

We were inside the house. The Captain showed great interest in the enlarged photograph of my father and the oil paintings of grandfather and great grandfather.

“Your son,” he said, “is the fourth generation in your family that I have seen. I remember your grandfather very well. Those were the days when I started on this route.”

Grandfather had died before I was born. In the painting he looked impressive with handsome features and powerful eyes.

My wife brought coffee. The Captain smiled at her, took a sip and said, “Good.” The hostess was pleased.

“Tell me about America,” the Captain requested.

I told him about my job in the States, described the places and people. He asked several questions with a deep interest. The queries were not naïve but quite intelligent and logical. He even asked about aerospace, which is my field. He was surprised to learn that America did not have the type of boats used in Kerala.

“May be,” he said suddenly, “I could sail Veronica to that country.” Then he laughed and added, “It’ll take too long. Anyway the wife won’t come along.”

After a brief pause the Captain said abruptly, “Well, it’s time to go.”

“Please,” I said, “have breakfast with us.”

My friend shook his head. “No, son,” he replied. “Have to go. Actually I came to bid goodbye. It’s a strange coincidence that you returned in time to make that possible.”

That was a little confusing but the Captain went on to clarify, “Today’s my last trip. This route is included in the government’s water transport nationalization scheme. They take over tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said with feeling.

“Well,” my friend said, “In a way it’s a good thing. I’m too old to keep this service going.”

I wanted to protest. But the Captain was right. He must have done that route for fifty years and more.

“Actually,” the Captain continued, “I was planning to retire by the year end. A private operator had agreed to put another boat on this line. My idea was to shore Veronica. I stay by the lakeside. There’s enough space beside the house to keep her on blocks. That way she would have been near me always.”

“But you can still do that. You don’t have to surrender Veronica.”

“I have to, son,” the Captain replied sadly. “This is a minor, unimportant route. The government agency may not spare a boat for this line. There are still a few people who depend on Veronica. Then there’s the crew. Some of them are third generation. Without her they would be out of jobs.”

It was leave-taking. We accompanied the Captain to the jetty. As we approached, the crew started the engine and kept it idling.

There was a minute of silence as we stood on the wharf. Then the Captain turned to me and said, “I’ve one regret though. When she’s taken over tomorrow they’ll paint out her name and give her a number. That’s a very sad thing.”

It was shocking. Veronica was a lady with a name. But in a day’s time she would be just a number, an antiquated piece of impersonal mechanical contraption!

“But that’s terrible,”

“Yes,” the Captain agreed. “It’s bad. But we can’t alter the process of change; we’ve to accept and adjust. The consolation is that to you and me she’ll always be Veronica.”

He winked at me, nodded to my wife and patted my son affectionately on the cheek. The old man then climbed over to the roof with surprising agility and went inside the cabin. The Captain was at the wheel. The bell sounded, the gears were engaged, and Veronica pulled out slowly. My friend waved as the boat turned to mid-channel and continued her journey.

We stood on the wharf for a long time, watching till the vessel became a speck in the distance.

“Daddy,” my son asked, “what’s his name?”

With a sense of emptiness I realized that I didn’t know. “The Captain,” I whispered.

When I looked again, Veronica had disappeared around a bend in the lake.

Ends.

Short Fiction: A Vodka Story

The policeman escorting me stopped at the door of the Magistrate’s chamber and talked to a turbaned peon in hushed tones. He had promised to save me the ignominy of standing in queue along with the accused in petty cases for the afternoon session of the Court. The shopping bag containing the booty recovered from my car was in his hands.

It had been a pleasant drive from Bangalore that morning. Instead of the direct route to my destination, Calicut via Sultan’s Battery, I happened to pick up a hitchhiker and took the road through Bandipur – Madumalai Wild Life Sanctuary. A part of it was in Tamil Nadu State, which I could have bypassed. But the drive along the route was exhilarating.

We stopped at the check post on the Tamil Nadu side of the border. A squat Head Constable accompanied by his assistant and a politician-looking young man took their time coming to the car.

After checking my driving license and the registration papers of the car, the Head Constable asked, “Are you carrying any alcohol?”

I suddenly remembered that Tamil Nadu State had prohibition those days and thanked my stars for not buying liquor at Bangalore where it was cheaper, to carry home.

“No,” I answered.

“What’s in that?” he questioned, pointing to the small bag kept on the back seat.

“I don’t know. It is a present. Haven’t opened it yet.” When I was leaving Bangalore, the friend with whom I was staying had placed it there saying, ‘Here’s something for you’.

The constable opened the bag and triumphantly took out a bottle and examined it carefully. “Vodka,” he said loudly. “There’s one more.”

The Head Constable nodded. “Do you have,” he asked, “a permit to carry liquor in Tamil Nadu?”

”No,” I said. “Look here, I was on my way to Calicut.”

“Should have been on that road, not on this.”

“But I was stopped and told that there’s rouge elephant blocking that road.”

The policeman laughed. “Not a dinosaur?” he asked sarcastically. “Who told you this fib?”

“The man,” I replied, “to whom I gave a lift.” I looked around for him but the fellow had vanished.

“Did he stop you at the turning to Calicut?”

“Yes.”

The Head Constable gave me an amused look. He got into the car and sat next to me. “Drive,” he ordered.

“Where to?”

“The Court,” he replied. “I’ll tell you the way.”

I thought of protesting, but kept quiet. I was thinking of a way to get out of the mess.

There was a big crowd just off the road half a mile from the check post. “What’s happening?” I asked.

“Cinema shooting. Some of the top stars are there. Your travel companion must be in the crowd”

Bastard, I said under my breath.

“Would you like me to pick him up?” the policeman asked. “Of course it won’t help you. He would deny everything. But I can shake him up pretty bad.”

“No point.”

“Actually,” the cop said after a while, “I would have let you go. After all you’re not a smuggler. But that local politician was there.”

“My bad luck,” I said. “How long will the court procedure take?”

“Depends on the number of cases ahead of yours. May be you’ll have to spend a night in the lockup.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get you the best as soon as we reach the court. But there’s another way.”

“What?”

“I’ll arrange for the Magistrate to see you in his chambers as soon as the Court adjourns for lunch. He’s fed up of these silly cases. You admit the offense and there’ll be a fine. It’ll be over in less than fifteen minutes.”

That seemed to be the best option under the circumstance.

When we passed a tea stall by the roadside the Head Constable asked me to stop.

“The bottles,” he said, “will be confiscated. Why waste good vodka. Can I have it? A return favour.”

I was silent, thinking.

“If not me,” the policeman continued, “the court peon who seals the bottle will take it. Or someone else. What difference does it make to you?”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Do you have any water bottles in the car?”

“There’s one under the seat.”

“That won’t do. You go to the teashop and get two bottles of water. Tell them that the engine seems to be heating up and you need to carry water.”

I did as I was told.

I was asked to stop again after a few minutes. Using the third bottle which was in the car, the policeman executed a transfer trick. When he finished, we had two water bottles filled with vodka, two vodka containers with water, and an empty bottle!

“Clever,” I said. The cop smiled.

The Magistrate was a chubby man. He looked bored. After studying me he announced, “This may appear rather informal, but the Court is now in session.” Then turning to me he asked, “Do you require a lawyer?”

“No, Your Honour.”

“Good. They talk too much and waste the Court’s time.”

The policeman briefly explained the case including my claim that I landed up in Tamil Nadu inadvertently. He took out the bottles and placed them on the Magistrate’s table. After scrutinizing them the Magistrate said, “We haven’t seen this brand here. Must be expensive. Made in Sweden.”

“Only the container, Your Honour,” I said.

The judge gave me a hard look. “And the contents?”

“Water, Your Honour,” I replied without looking at the policeman.

The Magistrate leaned back on his chair and asked me sternly, “Do you know the punishment for perjury?”

“No, Your Honour, but what I stated is the absolute truth.”

“But,” the judge rejoined, “it is written Absolut Vodka on the labels.”

“True, Your Honour,” I said. “But the bottles are filled with water. Your Honour can see that the caps are not sealed.”

The judge examined the bottle caps and frowned. He turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

“Your Honour, I’m sure that what I confiscated was vodka.”

The judge thought for a moment and pronounced, “Since there is dispute about the contents of the bottles, we shall send them for lab test.”

“But Your Honour,” I protested, “the verdict will have to wait till the results come.”

The judge looked at me sympathetically and nodded.

“Please, Your Honour,” I pleaded, “the test can be done right here. Vodka will burn. Water will not.”

The judge turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

The Head Constable looked pale. “I apologise to the Honourable Court,” he said. “I didn’t think of that test.”

When we started back the cop went into peals of laughter. “You’re a smart one,” he said. “Escaped the fine.”

I nodded and drove in silence. When we reached the halfway point between the court and the check post I stopped the car, told the cop that the rear tyre appeared to be flat and requested him to check. When he was out of the car I banged the door shut and drove away.

Ends.

Cross posted from:

Short Stories By Abraham Tharakan

BIG ONE and 'BELT' CHACKO - concluding part

Please read the concluding part of the story at Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan
(http://abrahamtharakansblog.blogspot.com/)
Can access by clicking on the title of this post.

BIG ONE and 'BELT' Chacko - 2

Click on the title to read part two of the story at Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan.

BIG ONE and 'BELT' CHACKO

This is from the special collection of short stories that I have written, but not published yet. The critics, editors and other writers who have read the piece have rated it high. Some have suggested that it is excellent material for a good movie but I have not pursued that angle.

Any way, I thought of sharing it with my readers. Hope you like it.

To access it at Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan please click on the title above.

Short Story

Read

The Bulldozer - concluding part

at Short Stories By Abraham Tharakan.

Story time.

It is a month since I published a short story. Here is a new one,

The Bulldozer.

at Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan.

Morning After the Storm - concluding part.

Click on the title to read the concluding part.

Morning After the Storm - Part 3..

Read Part 3 of the story at Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan. Click on the title.

Morning After the Storm - Part 2.

To read on, please click on the title.

Morning After The Storm - Part 1.

This prize-winning story presents, through the point of view of a Dalit, the great changes that affected the life in Kerala during the last century.

In the foreword to Winners Volume I (British Council-Unisun. 2005), an anthology that included this story, the Editors said: “In The Morning after the Storm the language is terse and spare. The author presents a searing reflection of pre-independence times in the persona of Chathan who is emblematic of Everyman. In crisp telegraphic sentences, the story telescopes many realms and many spheres – social, economic and political.”

The Hindu Literary Review (May 1, 2005), had this to say: “"To Trail A Wooden Wagon" by Kalpana Naghnoor and "Morning After the Storm" by Abraham Tharakan, which won the third prize, are tinged with sadness. A sense of longing for something lost.”

This is the original version of the story.

Click on the title to read.

A Tyreseller.

Read this prize-winning story at Short Stories By Abraham Tharakan. Click on the title.

[I am republishing this story now in memory of Chandy Mathew Pallivathukkal who was the moving spirit behind Unisun Publications. He passed away at Bangalore, India on April 7. An MBA from IIM, Ahmedabad, he was the Chairman of Duroflex, and the Chief of Unisun Technologies Ltd., a company that has made great contributions in the field of solar energy. Chandy’s collection of short stories ‘Looking in, looking out’ was acclaimed by critics. Abraham Tharakan.]

Songs of the sea - Part 2.

To read the concluding part of the story, click on the title.

Songs of the sea - Part 1.

A tender story about a little girl and the sea. Click on the title to read.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Concluding part.

Concluding part of the story appears in Short Stories By Abraham Tharakan. Click on title to read.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Part 2.

Click on the title to read part 2 of the story in Short Stories By Abraham Tharakan.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Part 1.

Was he really a dead man? Read the story and find out. Click on the title.

THE DEAD AND THE LIVING DEAD.

Read the touching story about a general and his daughter in Short Stories by Abraham Tharakan.

Click on the title.